Biggles Chases the Fox
by Akyra of Gallia
Summary: Battle of Britain. Biggles, stationed on the homefront, notices something strange after a run-in with some German fighters. With Bertie's help, he goes off to investigate. Oneshot.


**A/N : This is a story I wrote a while ago, and only remembered recently. It was previously published only on a group dedicated to Biggles, so some of you may have read it there. Or not, as readership was fairly small at the time. I don't usually write such short stories, but every once in a while, when inspiration strikes... In any case, I hope you enjoy it. As usual, reviews are very welcome.**

**As this was written before "Deep Waters", there are some elements that you find in both stories but somewhat less... polished and refined here. The two stories are however completely unrelated.  
**

* * *

**Biggles Chases the Fox**

* * *

The spitfire jerked slightly as it landed, before it taxied off the runway into its hangar. Wing Commander James Bigglesworth, more commonly known as Biggles, climbed down from the cockpit and opened his flight jacket before he began to remove his gloves. He gave his machine a rueful glance ; it weighed probably about fifty grams more in lead, and sported a whole new array of bullet holes along its fuselage. At least the machine was easier to fix than human flesh, and Biggles himself had escaped any injury. Other things were on his mind, however, and a slight frown marred his forehead as he stared at his plane without really seeing it.

"Hey - Biggles !"

Bertie was walking briskly towards him, a wide grin on his face, and Biggles turned to face him.

"Well, that was one heated dogfight," Biggles commented, while they began walking towards the mess by mutual though unspoken consent.

"You can say that again !" Bertie agreed. "It was a bit odd when they broke off from the fight so suddenly at the end. I reckon they found we were too tough for them ; I think I can claim two for myself, and I saw you shoot at least one down."

Biggles' frown deepened. "As you say, that was odd. They still outnumbered us, and they didn't suffer such bad losses. But all of a sudden, it seemed they could not get away quickly enough..."

Bertie shrugged. "Whatever the reason, we sent them back home with their tail between their legs."

By then, they had reached the mess hall where they picked a table a little farther from the other pilots so they could keep talking quietly. In the far corner of the room, the pilots from another squadron were apparently trading stories, often interrupted by loud bursts of laughter. Having retrieved some lunch, Biggles and Bertie began to tuck into it heartily.

"I suppose Algy and the others are getting ready for this afternoon's flight," Biggles said between two bites.

Bertie nodded, his mouth too full for him to reply verbally. Biggles looked outside the window, his mind still dwelling on that other thing that had been bothering him. Having finally swallowed and gulped down some water, Bertie went on wolfing down his meal - though always with dignity - but upon tucking into his dessert realized that Biggles had stopped eating altogether and in fact had not said a word for the past five minutes.

"Hello, is anyone here? I'd swear you're still up there, head in the clouds. What's the matter?"

Biggles had been unsure whether to mention it, since he did not have much to go on with, but he needed no more than Bertie's prompting. Slowly, deliberately he poured himself a glass of water. "When we were in the air this morning, did you notice anything odd?"

"You mean apart from Jerry scuttling off so suddenly?"

"Yes."

Bertie took the monocle from his eye and began to clean it methodically while he thought it over. "Nothing that I can think off," he said finally. "What did you see?"

"A flash of white," Biggles said, drawing a befuddled look from his friend.

"What do you mean?"

"It happened while I was going after that Messerschmitt," Biggles explained. "Another one attacked me on my right side, so I had to veer off left to avoid a volley of shots. While I was turning, a flash of white caught my attention, at the corner of my vision. I only saw it for a moment and I thought nothing of it at the time. I thought it may have been a reflection from the sun, but it can't have been; the weather was overcast."

Bertie raised an eyebrow while he screwed the newly-cleaned monocle back into his eye. "So what do you think it was?"

"Now that I have had time to think on it... I believe it may have been a parachute."

"A parachute?" Bertie's tone was of polite disbelief.

Biggles took his time before answering, as he looked thoughtfully through the window. Ominous grey clouds had hovered low all morning, and now a fine drizzle was moistening the panes. That was weather to remain indoors with a nice, hot cup of tea.

"It may have been nothing," he said finally. "But imagine the consequences if I'm right."

Bertie looked somewhat uneasy as he did just that. "It could have been one of our people," he argued nonetheless. "Remember, the chaps from 225 joined in the fun about ten minutes into the fight; we'd have been in a tight spot, had they not. Maybe one of their people had to abandon his plane."

"It could be," Biggles admitted. "But I could have sworn I saw that flash near a German plane."

They were both silent for a moment, until Bertie asked, "So what do you intend to do about that?"

It was Biggles' turn to shrug. "I can't really go to the CO without a shred of evidence," he admitted ruefully. "But I don't want to dismiss this either. I think the best thing to do would be to go back to the area where the fight took place and have a look around, question the locals. Just for my peace of mind."

Bertie sighed theatrically. "And here goes my first afternoon off in two weeks."

"You don't have to come, I'm pretty sure I can handle that on my own."

Bertie leant over the table and patted Biggles on the shoulder. "Leave you on your own? Come now, I couldn't do that. You'll never manage without my wit, my cunning, my..."

"...modesty," Biggles murmured quite audibly.

"Absolutely," Bertie agreed, absolutely unfazed. "I'm glad you recognize that as well." He grinned at Biggles' obvious despair.

* * *

Finding the area again was no difficulty, nor was landing, as there were many pastures around Appledore. The weather had not cleared, but had not got any worse either, and overall the ten-minute flight was rather pleasant. Biggles and Bertie instinctively keept an eye out for potential enemies, tricky with so many clouds where they could hide, but none appeared.

Once the pilots landed, their first move was to walk to the nearby village and find the locals to ask them if they had seen anyone parachuting in the vicinity. The first two - the postmaster and an elderly shopkeeper - had nothing to say, having hid in their cellar as soon as they had heard the planes, just in case. They had a bit more of luck with the third one, as woman farmer in her mid to late forties who must have been beautiful when she was younger, though a lifetime of hard work had thickened and roughened her frame. Oddly, when she saw Biggles and Bertie a hint of fear crossed her features.

"Hello," she said nervously.

"Good afternoon," said Biggles. "I'm Wing Commander Bigglesworth, and that's Flight Lieutenant Lissie. I was wondering if we might have a word with you - it will only take a minute."

She took a deep breath, and her face contracted slightly, but she nodded slowly and showed them to the living room. All the while, she kept her eyes on them, but quickly looked away when Biggles stared back.

"Would you care for some tea?" she asked shakily.

"No, thank you - as I said, it will only take a moment. Ah - what is your name, by the way?"

The woman looked oddly at them for a moment. "You don't know...?"

"No," Biggles said, somewhat taken aback. How did she suppose he should know that?

"Oh," the woman said, and dawning understanding lit her face. She relaxed noticeably. "So you haven't come about Tom?"

"Who?" asked Bertie, who was obviously just as surprised as Biggles.

"Tom - that would be Tom Wade, my son. He's in the RAF. When I saw you, I thought..." she trailed off, twisting the fabric of her dress.

Biggles understood better the woman's anguish now, and indeed she had reason to fear. After all, why else would RAF officers visit her, but to inform her of her son's death?

"No, our visit has nothing to do with that," he said, not unkindly. "We've come about the dogfight this morning, Mrs. Wade."

"Oh, of course!" Now relieved of her anxiety, she proved to be a chatty and pleasant woman. "Yes, I saw it all from my window. I know it would be safer to hide in the cellar, but each time I see these dogfights it makes me think of my son, and I want to be ready to help if pilots go down."

"That's courageous of you," Biggles said, and he meant it. More than one pilot, knocked out in his cockpit, had been saved from the explosion of his plane by such civilians, who risked being burnt themselves to save them. "What I want to know is whether you have seen someone parachuting down during the dogfight."

He had half expected her to answer negatively, but Mrs. Wade immediately nodded.

"Yes, of course. I ran over in case he needed help."

Biggles drew in a breath. So he had not been mistaken - someone had indeed jumped from a plane during the dogfight. That left many unanswered questions. "Why don't you tell us exactly what happened, from the beginning," he suggested.

"Of course. But - where are my manners - you should sit down. Are you sure you wouldn't like some tea?"

Before Biggles had time to refuse, she was already in the kitchen to warm up a kettle, and he gave up. From across the room in the armchair where he was seated, Bertie exchanged a look with him.

"I have now the deepest respect for your observation skills," he said. "But still, as I said, it could be one of the 225th boys."

"It could," Biggles agreed, "Just as it could not."

Hardly a minute later, Mrs. Wade was back with a tray and three cups of tea, and neither Biggles nor Bertie could decently refuse it. Then, at last, the woman began her story.

"As you already know, I was watching the dogfight when I saw this speck of white. I knew it was a parachute, so I hurried over to see if the pilot was injured and needed help. He landed in the field, hardly five hundred yards from here."

"Did you talk to him?" Biggles asked.

"Of course." Mrs. Wade looked slightly surprised at the question. "He was wounded, so I offered to take him in and call the doctor. He said the injury was minor, and he should get back to his base as soon as possible. I would have offered him to call from here, but the phone hasn't been working for two days now. He said it didn't matter and he would call from the train station, so I gave him directions to get there."

Biggles frowned as he tried to put the pieces together. He felt like he was missing something, but was unable to give a name to that something.

"I don't suppose the chap told you his name, did he?" Bertie asked, without much hope.

"Well - yes, in fact he did," Mrs. Wade said. "I was a bit surprised that he had a foreign accent, and he explained he was a Polish flyer. He even showed me his identification, and it said his name was Aleksy Stratinski. A very well-mannered man."

Biggles and Bertie exchanged another look. Things were beginning to get interesting.

"What did this... Stratinski... look like?" Biggles enquired.

Mrs. Wade frowned slightly as she called on her memory. "A little taller than you, with black hair and blue eyes, and sharp features. That's all I could say, really. I'm not much of a physionomist, I'm afraid."

"You said he was injured?"

"Oh, yes, a cut on his shoulder, though it did not seem to be serious. The poor man seemed to be more upset at the damage done to his shirt than that done to his skin," Mrs. Wade chuckled indulgently. "I told him not to forget to treat the cuts with antiseptic, and that it would be better if he showed it to a doctor, once back on his base." She looked slightly worried, all of a sudden. "He did get back to his base, didn't he? Such a charming man, it would be awful if anything happened to him."

"Yes, awful," Biggles agreed grimly. "Thank you, Mrs. Wade, you have been of tremendous help to us. You did say he was going to the train station... can you show us the way?"

Once she had done so and Biggles and Bertie took their leave, they began to walk through the village towards the station. Both were lost in thoughts for a while, until Bertie finally broke the silence.

"Well, we could ask the 225th if they have Polish flyers in their midst, and more specifically one called Statri... Staten... er... whatever it was."

"Stratinski," Biggles said absent-mindedly. "And I'll bet you two weeks' pay that they don't. In fact, I'm willing to bet that accent of his was German, not Polish - and that his name is most likely _not_ Aleksy Stratinski."

"Hold on, old boy - aren't you jumping to conclusions a bit fast?" Bertie protested.

"Maybe I am," Biggles allowed. "But better that than the other way round. The worst that can happen if I'm wrong, is that we'll look stupid - which in your case will not make much of a difference..."

"Oi !" Bertie protested good-naturedly.

"But if I'm right, on the other hand..." Biggles continued, ignoring him.

"Yes, I see what you mean."

* * *

The stationmaster, a man in his fifties called Joseph Phelps, was most cooperative once Biggles introduced himself and Bertie, but he did not have much to add to Mrs. Wade's tale.

"Yes, of course I saw the Polish flyer - lieutenant Stradski or something like that..."

"Stratinski?" Bertie supplied helpfully, drawing a rather ironic smile from Biggles.

"Yes, Statarski. These Poles have most extraordinary names, wouldn't you say? Ermph, anyway, I gave him use of my phone, so he called his base and said he would take the train back, it would be faster than his people sending a car. Naturally, I offered him the ticket free of charge, it was a special case..."

"Which train did he take?" interrupted Biggles.

Phelps pulled at his short white beard thoughtfully. "Let's see... Ah, yes. He just managed to catch the 11.45, on the Dover-London line."

"Thank you. Anything else you can tell us about him?"

The stationmaster looked surprised. "Not really. He looked very unhappy when they told him they couldn't send a car right away, on the phone. He said something in Polish, that can't have been very polite. But apart from that there's nothing much to say."

"He didn't mention which squadron he was from?" Bertie asked, "Where did he call?"

"Er, let's see," Phelps said. "I didn't really pay attention... I think he asked for the Ashford airfield."

"That would be the 225th's base," Biggles observed quietly. "I'm going to have to ask if we can use your phone, Mr. Phelps."

"Of course," the stationmaster said, his eyes going from Biggles to Bertie and back. "What is going on, if I may ask?"

"I cannot say yet," Biggles said firmly. "Excuse me."

The last thing he wanted was to discuss the possible presence of a spy with a civilian. He quickly got on the phone and asked to speak to the CO of the 225th, at which point he was informed the CO was having a well-deserved rest and it had damn well better be important.

"It is," Biggles all but snapped in the phone. "Of the utmost importance and urgency, in fact. Kindly get me the CO at once."

Who was asking, was demanded of him.

"Wing Commander Bigglesworth."

He was made to wait for perhaps five or ten minutes, and Biggles had to reign in his impatience. Finally, he had Flight Commander Caldwell at the other end of the line, who immediately demanded to know what was so important that he had to be disturbed.

"Really, Biggleswirth, or whatever your name is, who do you think you are ?" Caldwell concluded, rather vociferously. Unfortunately, Biggles had not yet met him, as he had been affected in the area only recently, and of course Caldwell would not know him yet. They had been rather too busy to worry about such matters, of late.

Holding back his annoyance at being treated in such a manner, Biggles reminded himself forcefully that without Caldwell's squadron, he and his men would have had a hard time dealing with the German planes this morning.

"Caldwell, sir, I'm sorry about that, but it's a very urgent affair and time is lacking for a detailed explanation. I'll be glad to tell you all about it later, but for the time being I only need you to answer a few questions."

"Well then, ask away," Caldwell said, sounding a lot calmer now that he had been able to vent some of his annoyance. Apparently, he was one of these volatile people who quieted down as quickly as their temper rose.

Relieved that he would not have to indulge in pointless arguing, Biggles went straight to the point. "Do you have any Polish flyers on your base?"

"Polish?" Caldwell sounded flabbergasted. "We did fly occasionally with the 302 fighter squadron, but they've moved a few days ago, closer to the front. They're exceptional flyers. Incredibly bold - I'd even say, reckless." The admission was made grudgingly.

"Has a lieutenant Stratinski called you today?"

"What? Wait, I'll check." The buzz of voices in the background was clearly audible. A moment later, Caldwell was back on the phone. "I'm afraid not. Why, is it important?" The Commander's prior irritation had vanished in favour of a healthy curiosity.

"Yes," Biggles said, but without divulging further details. "Was lieutenant Stratinski a flyer of the 302nd?"

He could almost see Caldwell shrug at the other end. "I don't know - they have unpronounceable names, all of them. I'll have to check the listing. If it's still here, that is, since they're no longer here."

"Please do," Biggles urged him. "It is of the utmost importance."

"Wait a moment."

It took Caldwell a whole twenty minutes before he was back on the phone, during which time Biggles was sorely tempted to fidget like a schoolboy. He saw that Bertie had taken a seat with the stationmaster and was talking to him, presumably in an attempt to find out more about the mysterious Polish flyer.

When finally Caldwell was back, he did not bring very helpful information.

"What did you say the man's name was?"

"Stratinski."

"Hum. No, sorry, no Stratinski. I have a Stradinski however, are you sure that's not him ?"

Biggles could have screamed in exasperation. He was sure the woman, Mrs. Wade, had said Stratinski, but could she not have been mistaken? He frowned slightly. Even if Mrs. Wade _had_ been mistaken, which was far from a given, why would Stratinski call the Ashford airfield if his squadron was no longer stationed there? And indeed, what was he doing in the vicinity in the first place? No, things did not add up.

Then he realized he was still holding the phone. "Thank you for your help," he told Caldwell, and hung up.

He sat down with Bertie, who had finished his talk with the stationmaster, in the deserted hall of the train station - no other train was scheduled before this evening - where they could talk in peace, and he summed up the conversation he had just had with Caldwell.

"All right," Bertie said, "all this does seem rather fishy. What do you propose we do about it? And first off, shouldn't we call base? They'll be worrying, we've been gone for several hours now, and we're going to be late for our next patrol if we don't hurry up."

"I know," Biggles said, "but this affair is more important than a patrol. I think I'd better call Commodore Raymond. This would be his field, after all."

"There's something I don't understand," Bertie observed. "Why would a spy land in the middle of nowhere?"

"So as not to attract attention, I should think."

"Hardly a good plan. You're more likely to be noticed in these small villages than in a bigger town. Besides, if he's a spy, or perhaps a commando of some sort, he must have an objective. What I mean is, tracking him down might prove difficult, but if we knew what his objective is - it couldn't be too far away from here - it wouldn't be very clever for a spy to land hundreds of miles from his objective, especially when he risks being found out at every moment."

"You're right," said Biggles, thoughtful. "We know he's taken the train to London, but that does not mean his objective is anywhere in that direction. In fact, it's more likely he got off at the next station and took another train, so I highly doubt we'll be able to follow his track. But if I call Raymond, he may know which objectives in the vicinity are the most likely to attract potential spies."

* * *

Raymond, when Biggles called him unexpectedly (it took about half an hour for the call to get through), was understandably dismayed to hear of what he had found.

"That is very serious news, Bigglesworth," he said gravely. "And a somewhat wild tale, if you'll forgive my saying so. If it were anyone else, I'd think it was a hoax, but I know you would not play that kind of jokes. I'll check immediately." Biggles heard him calling his aide and asking for some maps after he put down the receiver.

Biggles was made to wait for a while, until Raymond got back on the phone.

"Well?" asked Biggles.

"There are several possible targets in your vicinity for sabotage or spying," Raymond said grimly. "But there is one more tempting than the others. So tempting, in fact, that I shall not give you any details on the phone. Have you heard of the Charing airfield ?"

"No. I know the name of the town, but I wasn't aware there was an airfield there."

"Good. We tried to call them just now, but it seems the line was cut and we couldn't get in touch. Listen, Bigglesworth, I realize you have other duties, but you are closer to Charing than we are, and this is most important - I could even say, vital. I don't want to involve more people than I have to, and since you already are on this affair..."

"You want me to fly over and catch the spy," Biggles concluded.

"I can't order you to do it - that is, not without filling in mountains of paperwork, by which time it will be too late..."

"That won't be necessary," Biggles interrupted him. "I understand this is fairly important. If you'll clear it with my CO, you can count me on the job."

"Thank you, Bigglesworth," Raymond said warmly. "I knew you wouldn't let me down. And now, I don't want to sound dismissive, but..."

"Time is of the essence," Biggles completed, "I'm on my way. I'll report to you as soon as I have something new."

He hung up, he and Bertie took their leave from the stationmaster, and Biggles explained the situation to him while they walked briskly back to their machines.

"So what," Bertie said, "we're going to Charing?"

"_We _aren't ; I am."

"Come now, Biggles - " Bertie began to protest.

"No time to argue," Biggles cut him. "I need you to go back to our base and explain to the CO what is going on. Don't say the name of Charing, but you can tell him pretty much everything else. And then you can come and meet me at Charing."

"We could have 'phoned them," Bertie said, rather unhappily.

"I didn't want to spend a second more on the phone," Biggles said. "It could be a matter of minutes. If the spy's mission is to sabotage the Charing airfield, he may be setting explosives right now."

Bertie paled noticeably at the idea, and protested no more. They walked in silence for a while, and soon they could see the field where they had landed.

"I think I've got it," Bertie said suddenly.

"What?" asked Biggles, taken by surprise by the sudden change of subject.

"Why the Germans broke off the fight so suddenly. They were probably here to escort the spy ; once he had landed, they had no reason to stay and fight."

"Good grief !" exclaimed Biggles. "I think you're right. I should have thought of it."

"Well now, old boy, not everybody can have a mind as keen as a Lissie's..."

"Not that I would wish that on anybody," Biggles said with a lop-sided smile, and he prepared to climb in his plane, ignoring Bertie's outraged exclamation.

"You be careful, yes?" Bertie added quickly. "Don't get yourself blown up with that airfield. That would make Jerry much too happy for my liking."

"Don't worry," said Biggles with a grim smile. "He isn't born, the one who'll blow me up."

* * *

They took off and went each their own way, Biggles east-south-east and Bertie south-west. Soon they could not see each other's plane anymore. The clouds were getting darker and darker, although the drizzle had stopped, and Biggles could see a storm brewing. He hoped fervently it would not start for a while yet. Catching spies was hardly his preferred hobby, but it was even less enjoyable in the middle of a rainstorm.

Now that he was in the air, he took out his map and checked his bearings. Even at full speed, it would take him ten to fifteen minutes to get to Charing. Anything could happen in that time, especially when the spy had such a head start. Biggles regretted now not following his instinct and going immediately after him, as soon as he saw the white flash of his parachute opening. But regrets came too late. Furthermore, the spy was on foot, and it would take him longer than Biggles to get to Charing - if that was, indeed, his objective. Hopefully, Biggles would catch him red-handed.

It wasn't without trepidation that Biggles located the Charing, then the airfield beside it - which seemed to be still in one piece; apparently the spy had not yet got round to blowing it up. The airfield was camouflaged, and Biggles may never have noticed it was there if he had not been looking specifically for it. He landed without a hitch and climbed down his plane, to be met by a small squad of soldiers who greeted him warily.

Their wariness vanished partly when he explained who he was and showed his identification, and they escorted him to the office of the colonel in charge of the facility.

Colonel Harrison was a short fellow with greying hair and an easy-going attitude. He invited Biggles to sit down and leant forward on his desk, his chin resting in his hands.

"Well now," he said, "to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit? We don't usually have uninvited people around here."

"You would have been warned of my impending arrival," Biggles said, "but your phone doesn't seem to be working."

"Really ?" Harrison frowned. "It was in perfect order this morning." He picked up the phone, and hung up just as quickly. "No tonality. Damn the Jerries and their bombing," he added, grimly.

"That doesn't matter right now," Biggles cut him. "What matters is the reason for my presence here. You may have a spy running around."

"A spy?" Harrison looked completely flabbergasted. "Here?"

"Did someone by the name of Stratinski come here today?"

"Well - yes. He said he was a new test pilot. We hadn't received notification but the paperwork often takes some time coming through."

Biggles narrowed his eyes; apparently, Commodore Raymond had guessed right. A sense of satisfaction swept over him at the idea that he would be able to catch the man. Unconsciously, he had begun to consider him more or less like his personal prey, ever since the spy had set foot in England under his very nose.

"What did you do with him then?"

Colonel Harrison was beginning to look nervous. "We assigned him quarters and an escort. We were waiting for the papers to come through before we assigned him any duties. I think he was going to have a tour of the place with Sergeant Hunter." He saw the look Biggles was sending his way, and raised his arms helplessly. "What can I say? His identification was in order!"

Biggles shook his head dumbly, but realized it was neither the time nor the place to assign blame. "Where is he now?" he asked instead.

"They could be anywhere..."

The colonel was beginning to understand just how serious the situation was, and he called in his second in command, Captain Thorpe, and ordered for a thorough search to be conducted for Stratinski.

"Tell them to look for explosives too," Biggles advised. "He may well try to blow this place up." The idea, while talking with Bertie, had sounded rather ludicrous, but not so much now.

The colonel confirmed the order. Meanwhile, Biggles was unwilling to wait idly for the search to be conducted, and he stood up.

"Where do you keep the most sensitive information?" he asked Harrison. "That's where we are the most likely to find our man, and at least we can see what damage has been done already."

"I'll show you the way," offered the colonel, who was now looking quite miserable.

He led Biggles inside the complex, which was larger than Biggles had thought from the air, until they stopped abruptly in a corridor.

"What is it?" asked Biggles, by then expecting anything to happen.

"That's odd," said Harrison, whose face was now contorted in an expression of deep-seated unease. "There should be a guard at this door."

Biggles had understood before he even opened the door and stepped inside the archive room.

"This door should be locked!" Harrison's voice had turned to a squeak, which might have been funny if not for the circumstances.

Biggles stared down at the body lying down in a corner of the room. Probably the guard, he thought darkly, and three strides brought him to the soldier's side, where he checked his pulse. He was still alive, but seemed to have been knocked out fairly hard; dried blood etched the right side of his face. Biggles turned towards Harrison.

"What about the archives?" he asked imperiously. "Is anything missing, or out of place?"

Harrison, who knew that his job, and indeed his life were at stake, was frantically going through the archives in question. After a few minutes he stopped suddenly and kept staring at the files he was holding, though it was uncertain he was seeing them at all. He seemed to be in shock.

"Colonel!" Biggles insisted, a bit louder.

Harrison blinked and looked up at him. He was pale as a sheet. "The Nightingale file is still here," he said in a hollow voice. "But the 43VR are missing."

Biggles had no idea what either of those things could be, but if he trusted the look on Harrison's face, they were not his grandmother's shortbread recipe. Still, nothing more could be accomplished by staying there.

"Let's go," Biggles said, as Harrison was obviously in no state to be more proactive, and he all but dragged the colonel back to his office. "I gather it would be a bit of a disaster if that information went to the Germans?" he asked for confirmation on the way back.

Harrison stared at him, still in shock. "A disaster? That's a euphemism," he said weakly. "The Nightingale is... suffice to say, it's a new type of plane. Nightingale is only a temporary code name, of course. It would have been bad enough if it had ended in German hands, but the 43VR ? That's even worse. I don't want to go into details - enough harm has been done, though it won't be a secret for much longer, I imagine - but with the 43VR blueprints in hand, the Germans can hurt us badly. It's rather odd that the Nightingale blueprints are still there in fact, but perhaps the spy didn't know what they were and dismissed them..." the colonel's voice was slightly dazed.

"Why wasn't the information locked up in a safe, then?"

Harrison shrugged. He seemed to have aged years. "It is, at night. But in daytime we often need access to those files. It would be a terrible waste of time to lock and unlock them all the time, so we just put a guard at the door." He shrugged again. "What more can I say?" It appeared this was his favourite phrase, and Biggles kept himself from giving a less than friendly answer.

By then, they had reached the colonel's office, where Thorpe was waiting to report.

"Found anything?" Biggles enquired. He tried to remain calm and keep his wits about him; panicking would hinder more than help any action they took.

"Yes, I'm afraid we did," the captain said. He was still slightly out of breath. "We found sergeant Hunter - he was knocked out and tied up in a storage room. The doctor is taking care of him now. My men are still searching the rest of the building, but I doubt if they'll find Stratinski."

"Why is that?" asked Biggles.

"The guards at the gate report that he left, perhaps fifteen minutes ago. He borrowed one of our cars and explained he had an urgent errand to run into town."

* * *

With a deep feeling of satisfaction, the man who went by the name of Aleksy Stratinski steered the wheel of his borrowed car. His mission was nearing its end now, and it had been ridiculously easy, overall.

And yet it had not started so well. He was supposed to be dropped off farther inside England, but they had met those damn Spitfires, and there was no getting rid of them. Stratinski had hesitated before jumping, but when his plane had been hit he had had no choice but to go. Thankfully, it did not seem that anyone had noticed him; the _Englanders _had been too busy dealing with the rest of the German planes.

He had been wounded by some shrapnel before he jumped, and though the cut was far from being life-threatening it was annoying because it made it harder to remain inconspicuous, not to mention the sharp, unpleasant pain that jolted his shoulder when he moved too quickly. Fortunately, only the shirt had been torn by a piece of shrapnel, and when he closed his flying jacket it did not show. It was unfortunate that the farmer woman had seen him, but it was inevitable, and in any case it was unlikely anyone would think to interrogate her. Not before Stratinski was far away from England, in any case, and by then it would be too late to do the Allies much good.

It had then been a fairly simple matter to take the train. He had made a show of calling the closest airfield, which had more than satisfied the stationmaster's vague suspicions. This cover as a Polish airman had been a stroke of genius, if he thought so himself. Just for the sake of thoroughness, and to satisfy his somewhat paranoid nature, Stratinski had been careful to change directions twice before he boarded a train going to Charing.

Only then had the true difficulties begun, but there again it had been much easier than expected. The guards of the airfield, and later the colonel, had been easily convinced by his story, and he had the papers to confirm it. He even had faked transfer orders; the _Abwehr_ always was very thorough. Of course, the British had still been wary enough to assign him a guard, but in the end that had been helpful more than a hindrance. With the sergeant accompanying him, Stratinski had had access to the whole base without anyone thinking anything of it, and later on it had been a simple matter to render the sergeant unconscious and hide his body.

He had acted at a time of the day when the personnel of the base was either working or finishing their lunch, and he had met much less resistance than he thought to get to the archive room. And then... then luck had been truly on his side. He had found the Nightingale blueprints easily enough, and photographed them. The film containing the information was now safely tucked in his shirt pocket, in a plastic bag to make sure it could not be damaged.

Nightingale had been his objective, and he had not at all expected to find the 43VR blueprints as well. If he had, he would have taken more film, Stratinski thought with some irritation directed at himself. He should always plan for more than strictly necessary. As it was, he had had no choice but to take the whole file with him. It was bulkier and more conspicuous to carry, and he had been forced to tuck the papers into his jacket. Still, that was quite a bonus, and he was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Convincing the guards at the gate to let him get out had, again, been easier than expected. He had been ready to shoot them and pass through by force if necessary, but they had been very amiable. It was better that way - Harrison may not notice Stratinski's disappearance for a while yet, and he was getting a very comfortable head start.

Stratinski leant slightly back in his seat, eyes set on the road. Yes, it had been easy. Too easy; that made him uncomfortable. He pursed his lips; his shoulder throbbed unpleasantly, and he wished he could light a cigarette, but his instinct told him to leave as fast as possible. When he reached the rendezvous point, then he could relax a little.

* * *

Biggles never came so close to despair in this affair as he did in the quarter of hour following Thorpe's statement. He was at his wit's end. The spy could be anywhere by now. He may even have ditched the car and continued by train or on foot - or on a bicycle, for all Biggles knew.

The roar of several planes' engines made Biggles look up at the sky. Only then did he remember that Bertie was supposed to join him after stopping at their base. It was not hard to guess who must be piloting the other two planes; Algy and Ginger. The arrival of his friends, which normally would have cheered Biggles up, made him scowl. A fat lot of good their presence would do, he thought. He had let the spy slip between his fingers, and that was it; he could not imagine how to catch him again.

Ten minutes later, nevertheless, Biggles, Bertie, Algy, Ginger, Thorpe and Harrison all gathered in the colonel's office to decide on a plan. First, Biggles explained in a few words what had happened since his arrival at Charing and the conclusions they had reached.

"So, the spy stole the 43VR blueprints, whatever that is, and managed to get away," Algy summed up finally.

"In a nutshell, yes," Harrison confirmed.

"Why, it's all very frustrating," Bertie said. "If Raymond's call had got through, you could have caught the cunning devil!"

"Yes, that's odd," Biggles agreed pensively. "It was very convenient for our friend Stratinski that the phone just happened to be out of order."

"No, that's not odd," Ginger said. He was seated on the left of Biggles, and the only one to have a clear view of this side of the desk. He picked up the phone and yanked at the flex. It came without resistance, and they all looked at the sabotaged phone.

"Why, the... the..." began Harrison, who was getting very red in the face. "He must have done that when he reported to me upon his arrival!"

"That's one thorough devil," Biggles said. He looked in frustration at the flex that was hanging loosely from the phone.

"Now we can charge him with 'damaging the Queen's property' on top of the rest," said Algy who sounded almost amused in spite of the situation.

Biggles gave him a sharp look. "That's not funny at all," he said. "A lot is at stake here."

"Well, crying about it won't make things any better," stated Algy philosophically.

"As I see it," Bertie said, effectively interrupting them before they could argue any more, "the only thing we can do is broadcast the spy's false name and physical description in the media and tighten security in the area. Although that's not really our business anymore, I should think Commodore Raymond can deal with this nicely."

"I suppose so," Biggles admitted without much enthusiasm. He hated being outwitted, and hated even more the thought of all the damage these blueprints could do to England if they left the country. He could not help but feel responsible, at least in part, for the woe they would bring.

"You're right," Captain Thorpe said. "I've already asked for road blocks, and I'll see if I can have them extended as far as Gillingham. The fellow shouldn't be so hard to spot; he's driving a military car..."

"These aren't exactly in shortage on the roads, these days," Algy observed wryly. "If anything, it'll make it easier for the man to get through."

"I've sent the fellow's description along," Thorpe insisted. "Though I have hardly had a glimpse of him myself, but he's kind of hard to forget. Average height, black hair, blue eyes, foreign accent, going by the name Stratinski, slight limp..."

Biggles looked up sharply. "What?"

Thorpe frowned. "Excuse me?"

"The spy has a limp, you say?"

"Er - yes." Thorpe seemed to wonder if the strain had not got to Biggles' brain. "Why?"

Biggles exchanged a look with the others. He could see that they knew what - or rather who - he had in mind, although Algy did not seem convinced.

"Plenty of people have a limp, that doesn't mean..." he began, but Bertie effectively silenced him with a slap on the back.

"Come now," Bertie said merrily, "that would be a bit much of a coincidence and you know it. Besides, the rest of the description fits too. Except for the monocle."

"He obviously ditched it for the time being," Biggles said grimly. "And I recognize his thoroughness, too. It all fits."

"Fits what?" asked Harrison, who had by then quite recovered from the shock of seeing the plans he was responsible for stolen and looked annoyed at being ignored in his own office.

"Not what, who," Bertie went on, blissfully ignoring the colonel's annoyance at being thus corrected. "Looks like old Erich is on the war-path again."

"He has some nerve," Biggles growled, though he could not keep back a note of admiration for the daring operation undertaken by his old nemesis. Anger dominated the admiration, though; never before had he been so thoroughly beaten, and he hated it.

Harrison took a deep breath. He looked redder and redder by the second. "What are you talking about?" Talking in a normal tone of voice obviously demanded a tremendous effort from him. "Do you know who that spy is?" The look he gave Biggles and his friends was almost suspicious, much to Biggles' annoyance.

"Good grief!" Biggles exclaimed. "Yes, we may know who he is, though that is yet to be confirmed. Erich von Stalhein. I have met him before - and I daresay I did not expect our paths to cross again, especially in such a situation." The thought of von Stalhein leaving England unhindered with vital information in his pockets made him seethe with anger.

"Well, that doesn't help much I'm afraid," said Thorpe, very practically. "Whatever his real name is, he has a good head start and is getting farther from us by the minute. And we can't do anything more than we already have."

Biggles leant back in his chair and tried to focus. He breathed in and out, slowly, letting go of his anger to think only of the problem in a detached, dispassionate manner. He needed to think, and anger could only cloud his mind.

They had no lead to follow, so the only thing they could do was try and guess where von Stalhein was headed. What would Biggles do if he was in the heart of Germany with vital information? He'd try to steal a plane... But he was a flyer first and foremost, which was not von Stalhein's case. Besides, stealing a plane meant additional risks, and the closest airfield was quite far from Charing. That made the chances of being caught higher, and von Stalhein never took chances when he could help it.

What were the fastest, safest ways of leaving England? A plane could come and get von Stalhein, but that, too, was risky. The plane could be shot down on the way; it could have trouble locating the right place. And it could not come in daytime. Not to mention, sending a plane to land so close to an airfield, even an experimental airfield such as Charing, was courting disaster.

_Think, Biggles... He stole a car, that means he expected to go somewhere, somewhere far from here, and he needed to be there quickly. A rendezvous point. If not by plane, the only other means to leave England is by..._

"Boat," Biggles said out loud.

The other occupants of the room all stared at him.

"I beg your pardon?" Bertie finally said.

"The only way von Stalhein can leave England quickly is either by plane or by boat. I doubt they sent a plane; it would be too dangerous. Besides, we couldn't do anything about it if they did, so let's not concern ourselves about that. That leaves the boat option."

"You mean a submarine," said Ginger.

"Exactly," Biggles confirmed. "That's a lot more discreet than a plane, and it could wait for von Stalhein several days in case he encountered trouble. Plus, the sea is not very far from Charing. I think it's more than possible."

"All right," Algy said, "how does that help us ? There are miles of coast. We can't hope to cover them all, not before von Stalhein escapes, not with the head start he has. Even if the whole home guard helped us, it would take days to organize a thorough search of the coast."

"That's right," Biggles admitted, "but that's not taking into account the requirements of a U-boat. They would have chosen someplace discreet, out of sight, with as much depth as possible so the boat can get closer to the shore. And they would have chosen the closest possible place to Charing, since they knew von Stalhein would have the whole sector after him after he pulled this out."

Biggles turned towards Harrison and Thorpe; all signs of defeat had left his face. "If we go by plane over the coastline, we should be able to spot von Stalhein."

Unless he reached the U-boat before that, but now it was a race against time. A race Biggles was determined to win.

"All right," Harrison said. "You'd better go then; I'll organize the ground search with Thorpe, though it'll probably be too late to do much good."

"Warn the Navy, too," Biggles advised. "They may be able to get the submarine if we miss von Stalhein. And call Commodore Raymond ; I won't have time to do it."

"We'll be dealing with that," Harrison said. "Go now, quickly!"

Biggles did not need to be told twice, and he jogged back to his plane with the rest of his team.

"I say..." Bertie panted from behind, "That devil will have given us a good run."

Biggles' jaw was set in a hard line. All was not lost... yet. "We'd better split up to cover as much ground as possible," he stated. "But keep in sight, nonetheless."

He looked up at the sky as he prepared for take off. It was only late-afternoon, but the clouds had been getting darker and thicker. Just when he needed a good visibility, he thought grimly, even the weather was going against him. Still, it was not raining yet, and there was enough light to see reasonably far - for the time being.

After taking off, Biggles felt himself become noticeably calmer. When he was in the air, he felt he controlled the situation. He knew what to do, and he intended to do it to the best of his abilities. Checking the map often and flying low, he made his way towards the coast. Every now and then, he checked that Bertie, Algy and Ginger were still in sight, but most of the time he kept his eyes glued to the ground, seeking the slightest sign that could betray von Stalhein's location. On more than one occasion he flew ridiculously low, only to realize that he had been mistaken. Inwardly, he was calculating feverously where von Stalhein could be, considering the speed limit - von Stalhein would want to be as inconspicuous as possible and so would not drive too fast - and the head start the German had, presumably.

By then, he must already be on the coast, or near it. But perhaps the U-boat would be late. And it would take some time for von Stalhein to swim that far, unless the submarine sent a dinghy. That, too, would take time.

Farther ahead, the uneven shape of a city appeared ; that would be Canterbury, most certainly. Swearing under his breath, Biggles had to climb higher as per regulations, too high to see much though he still kept a keen eye down. As soon as the city was behind him he began a steep descent, until he was again at a low enough altitude, and kept scanning the ground, willing von Stalhein to appear there and then. Sooner than he had anticipated, he drew closer to the coast, and a look at his watch told him that he had been flying for about fifteen minutes. He could see the greyish mirror of the sea, not so far away, and looked down even harder. Then he flew over the cliffs and turned sharply back to follow along the jagged coastline. At least, he thought with a grim satisfaction, the landscape was so barren, von Stalhein would have nowhere to hide.

Time lost its meaning as Biggles kept stubbornly on his task, hardly ever looking up now. The light was getting poorer, and he squinted to see better, now flying dangerously low. Was it a car on that road ? Yes, it was. And edging away from it, a human shape. The person looked up at Biggles' machine as it flew over, and though Biggles could not see the man's face or figure, he was sure, at once, that it must be von Stalhein. The man began to walk faster towards the cliff, obviously aiming for a place where it went down into a slope that allowed access to the sea.

Oh no, you don't, Biggles thought fiercely, and his trained eye caught effortlessly a suitable place to land. On his right, he noticed without really paying attention to it, the dark and oblong shape typical of the dreaded sea wolves, a U-boat. It was at the rendezvous, right on time, too. Biggles' plane slid lower until the wheels touched the ground. He pushed on the brakes harder than was advisable, and the plane jerked and slid until it came to a stop, its frame squeaking loudly in protest under the pressure. Biggles could hardly have cared less. He jumped more than climbed down the plane, and began running towards the man he had spotted from above.

The rain had finally broken out, and the soft, lukewarm drops drenched Biggles' face. Farther away, the roar of a plane could be heard; Algy, or perhaps Bertie, was coming to help, but they would be too late. Biggles spotted von Stalhein, now running towards the slope, and he began running as well. The German looked back over his shoulder, stopped running, and drew something that could only be a gun from his belt. There was a gunshot, and a bullet whizzed past Biggles.

"That was a warning shot," the German shouted. There was no doubt it was von Stalhein now, Biggles recognized his voice. "If you try to get any closer, I'll shoot to kill."

"Surrender, von Stalhein!" Biggles called. "You won't make it."

There was a slight pause, as the German recognized him also, and obviously had not expected Biggles to catch up with him, of all people. But he recovered quickly. "I think I will, Bigglesworth. For your own good, do not try to stop me. I think it's fair I should win, this time."

Von Stalhein started to walk towards the slope, but this time he kept his gun pointed in the general direction of Biggles, only occasionally looking behind him to check where he was going.

The other plane, whether it was Algy's or Bertie's, or even Ginger's, was coming low now, trying to cut von Stalhein's retreat and preparing to land just as carelessly as Biggles had. The difference was that the terrain was wet now, the rain having turned to a real downpour in a matter of seconds, and Biggles hoped fervently the plane would not crash. He need not have worried however, and a moment later he heard Bertie's voice, calling to their prey through the sound of the rain.

"Well now, be a good boy, von Stalhein, and drop that gun."

Von Stalhein's answer was brief but eloquent; his bullet was aimed at Bertie this time, and Biggles was worried for a moment before Bertie's voice could be heard again.

"Now that's not nice, Erich, not nice at all."

Slowly, carefully, Biggles edged closer to the German. His retreat was cut on both sides; behind him, a cliff. In front, the rest of England, and even if he chose to run he would not get far. Von Stalhein looked at Bertie, then at Biggles, and took a step back.

The cliffs of southern England, mostly made up of limestone and earth, were notoriously unstable. Any sensible people knew not to step on the edge of those cliffs that had given Great Britain its nickname of Perfidious Albion. But sensible persons were usually not held at gunpoint by their sworn enemies either. The eroded limestone at the cliff's edge began to collapse under von Stalhein's weight. Biggles ran.

It was only his strength of will and incredible suppleness that allow von Stalhein to jump, claw at the ground and stop his fall at the very last moment. Biggles reached the edge of the cliff a moment later and held out his hand as far as he could so von Stalhein could catch it.

The German looked up at him with a strange expression on his face. He made no move to catch Biggles hand.

"Now is not the time to be a stubborn donkey, von Stalhein!" Biggles said urgently.

Von Stalhein looked back at the sea. The U-boat had now surfaced, and it looked tantalizingly close. He turned his eyes back to Biggles, and had a strange smile.

"Until next time, Bigglesworth," he said, and he let go.

"No !" Biggles said furiously, and he grabbed at the German's arm, only just reaching far enough to catch his arm. The German's weight suddenly rested on him and he was pulled forward, only escaping the fall thanks to Bertie grabbing his legs. The three of them found themselves hanging in precarious balance. Biggles clenched his fingers around von Stalhein's arm as hard as he could, but the leather of his flying jacket was slippery with the rain, and threatened to escape his grip.

"Let go of me", von Stalhein shouted.

Through the rain Biggles could see his face, very white against the dark grey of the sea and clouds. Dark hair clung to his forehead, dripping with rainwater that trickled into his eyes and made him blink helplessly.

"Don't be stupid !" he shouted back. "This isn't worth your life, or mine !" He tried to pull the German up, but despite his lean build, von Stalhein was heavy enough and Biggles had precious little grip on the ground to give him any leverage. He was all too aware that any sudden move may send him, von Stalhein and Bertie down to a thirty-meters fall and doubtful survival. "Come on !" He extended his other arm, hoping to get a better grip if he could catch von Stalhein's right arm. "Give me your arm, you stupid Hun !"

Von Stalhein hesitated, then threw his right arm up and Biggles attempted to grab it. But as he caught the sleeve of the jacket, von Stalhein slipped free of the garment and Biggles could only watch while the German fell into the sea, unsure whether it had been a suicidal move or simply an accident.

In a daze, Biggles wondered how deep the sea was at the bottom of those cliffs, and whether a man could survive such a fall. Only when Bertie pulled him back, did he realize that he had bent dangerously far over the yet unstable edge. He sat down, still shaky and not caring that the wet grass let green stains on his uniform, and he looked dejectedly down at von Stalhein's jacket.

"What a souvenir," he muttered.

Bertie smiled whimsically. "It could have been worse. When you ran to catch von Stalhein, I thought you were going to..." he trailed off and shook his head, and only then did Biggles realize how pale his friend looked.

"What, fall with him?" he tried to joke. "I think not; there are nicer people to die with."

"You reckon he's dead then?" asked Bertie, obviously trying to pull himself together before he said uncharacteristically mushy things.

"If he isn't, he has the plans of the 43VR, whatever that is," Biggles said gloomily, "so I suppose, for the sake of everyone, if would be better if he is dead."

Bertie snorted. "I think he's too mean and stubborn to die so easily. Although..." he looked over the cliff. "...it _is_ quite a fall."

Biggles looked past him at the sea. "Do you see...?" he began.

"Can't see much of anything, old boy; it's quite a downpour we're having."

Standing up, Biggles picked up von Stalhein's jacket, and he frowned slightly when he realized the piece of clothing seemed thicker and stiffer than it should have been. He reached inside it, and looked in wonder as he felt under his fingers the reason for this curious state; a wad of papers. Not just any papers, either. Bertie looked too, his eyes so wide that his monocle fell off.

"I say," he observed, "that's one souvenir friend Erich did not take along."

"Indeed," Biggles said, still in disbelief. He suddenly smiled, then began to laugh. "Old Erich is going to be green in the face. After all the trouble he went through to acquire this, and such a dramatic escape - assuming he survived it - to lose those blueprints in such a ridiculous way..."

Bertie was laughing too in delight, now. "Have to send him a postcard," he managed to say between two roars of laughter. "_It was nice having you here, drop by anytime, love, Bertie and Biggles!_"


End file.
